To Everything There is a Season
by munchkinjenny05
Summary: You've waited for her before, you can again. Nobody says no to Paris or puts their dreams on hold for love, this isn't a movie, it's real life. What's more, it's only a year or so and you are both gold medallists. You understand sacrifice. A few extra miles is nothing you can't handle...


**A/N: This isn't the Jalo fic I promised, that's still to come, **this** was just a case of festive feels which somehow morphed into a fully grown story instead of the intended tiny tumblr ficlet. **

**I can't say that I'm sorry that it did or that I borrowed the style from my Lauren/Austin fic for ease. You'll have to forgive me that because Jake's POV isn't something that I'm used to or expected to explore. For that reason more than any other I'd love to know what you think.**

When you agree to make a second deal, it's automatic. An internship in Paris is on the table and as such, there is no room for anything except a resounding yes. You let her speak for you and it's clear that she tries desperately to fool herself that in the same way that your brain has since the moments the announcement was made. A tiny, insignificant email has blown everything apart, but it's the good kind of hurricane. You are certain of that if nothing else.

"It's just a year." The Naivety behind the whisper is plain, but you nod. Her drive and ambition sparked everything between you; it would be ridiculous to let that dim now. There are a lot of things you want, but never that.

"It'll fly by; you won't even have time to miss me." You add, keeping your voice as casual as possible. Her head bobs too, the sad hopefulness of the gesture matching yours. You bring out the most winning smile you have, the one kept in reserve for moments like this, all the while, your fingers are crossed that you'll be busy enough to make this white lie become a little more truthful. You have dreams too, things that you strive to accomplish. You were never going to be the type of boyfriend who just tags along, floating behind, and carrying her purse. It sounds so straightforward when you lay it out like that; she's still next to you then, close enough to touch.

Optimism fades when you are alone in the dark and the bed feels cold to the touch. The first thing you realise upon waking during those initial days is that connections which have to stretch across continents aren't the same as the definition of long distance that you've grown used to. It's on another level. Of course you can still have it all, if you can both just hold on, but the undeniable reality is that all your plans have become easier said than done. Lauren Tanner's schedule was enough of a minefield when she was just a few hours away and that gap feels inconsequential in comparison now. You didn't know how good you had it, a girlfriend that was just a car ride away.

It doesn't help that the first time you attempt to voice any degree of concern, she just laughs. "I'm the Damon to your Emily, remember?" She says, as if that solves everything. It doesn't. Nevertheless, your face cracks too. You are powerless against her wave of confidence.

...

Of course, the harder you fight the cracks, the quicker they appear. The first landmark you miss is her birthday. Despite having managed to scrape together only half of the required airfare, you considered it a minor hiccup and were still fiercely determined to make it, until the last moment when Payson IM's you. The plans change in your own mind at once. She needlessly warns of what she considers to be a wasted trip and although it's nothing that you haven't already considered in that spur of the moment inner debate, something about the words resonates all the same. You can't dismiss her sound argument like you can your own internal murmurings. The clincher comes as you picture Lauren's face whenever birthday traditions are mentioned. You know beyond any doubt then that her best friend (and the part of yourself you were fighting to ignore) is right. You shouldn't go. They'll be other celebrations for you to share with her.

It's no secret that you didn't understand the Tanner family dynamic at first, and still firmly believe that it's a miracle that your girlfriend can manage to lift her wrist under the burden of all the charms she has been gifted over the years, you've seen them together and you know that presents aren't really what the annual dinners are about. On the surface, Steve Tanner is money and flash, but disregarding the circus that surrounds these gatherings, the centre is much more endearing. You'll never admit that they brought a tear to your eye in that hospital, but it remains as true as ever nonetheless. It comes down to this, the father-daughter bond isn't just important to Lauren, it's _everything_ and you wouldn't dream of getting between them. Not really. Besides, you'll freely admit to having something in common with the man that you used to dislike, like him, you aren't ashamed to say that you're too selfish to want share her.

Therefore, without any other option, you continues to transfer money into the savings account and bide your time, throwing out seeming casual enquiries about the girl's schedule. It's a means of throwing her off track, making her think that you could arrive almost any weekend with the intent of a surprise celebration to rival the one you missed, but the reality is that you've had your heart set on a single date. Regardless though, you keep the secret and continue to call her like clockwork, letting her berate you for the lateness of your gift (you should have sent it first class) and listening to her calling you soppy as you continue to apologise for the missed chance (whilst secretly feeling grateful that the visit you've planned will be a million times better for it). You end every conversation typically, to keep her guessing.

"I'll see you soon, babe." It is probably the first time that you've said those words and meant them, you realise, upon hanging up the phone.

...

Your grand plans for your anniversary grow more idyllic (in your humble opinion) with each day that passes. You've channelled so much time and energy into organising each element that your friends have commented unfavourably on your tunnel vision but you don't care. It's a relief not to be concerned by nerves or petty fears. You can breathe. All that remains is to withdraw the cash and book the last minute, and thus cheaper, flight. Even this small consideration feels like a triumph, meaning that not only have you managed to construct every stage of this scheme singlehandedly, but can actually afford to implement them in exactly the way you hoped. Everything is perfect.

You (and your ideas) are left unstuck by a late night knock at the door. Your tired eyes focus on the scene before you, and every fibre and sinew immediately wakes up. It's like the climax to a Hollywood movie, constructed entirely for you. There is a blonde standing there, on an island of suitcases with a bulging overnight bag balanced precariously at her hip. You don't know how to react to a girlfriend who has materialised a week early, possibly with the sole intention of beating you to the punch. You're overwhelmed and with each new emotion comes a wealth of contradiction. Ultimately however, it is so unexpected, and you are so floored, that there isn't any room for irritation.

"You still haven't mastered the art of travelling light, then?"Old habits die hard. You tease on impulse, giddy as you scoop her, not the bags, into your arms.

You cannot see the smug expression or the perfectly timed eyebrow arch, but you're sure she is wearing both. "Well, it's funny you should mention that because my boyfriend likes me to look my best."

A dopey grin is the only response you can muster, until autopilot kicks in to save you from stunned silence for a second time. "Who is this guy, have we met?"

"Now that would be telling. So are you going to let me in or not?"

From that first moment, she has won. There is no contest. Yet again, you cannot compete and you aren't convinced that you want to, when push comes to shove, because her father's air miles permit a solid week of the beautiful blonde spoiling you rotten. How could anybody disapprove of that? You feel like you're the birthday boy all of a sudden. You wonder if this is how a king is treated. It's almost painful or sickening. She's there whenever your lip tries to stray into a pout and ready and waiting for kisses that prevent any words that could betray your own intent. You know that you can't tell her what you almost did, not only because the element of surprise won't be valid for the next time if you spill, but because the happiness of being able to give her a gift in person, and watch her open it, eclipses whatever fleeting emotions that the reveal would have granted you.

"This is perfect, I love it." She declares, as the paper and ribbon falls away. There is a momentary pause, a shy smile. "And I love you." You are speechless, (three times must be a record) fully aware that she has been badly burned by that word before. Your brain is wiped clean of half-made plans, ideas and piles of cash waiting to be spent. In truth, you've only gained for all of this.

...

The next two dates aren't yours to claim. It isn't to boast or to gain favour that you buy a plane ticket. You show up because you see through her lies. It is possible to miss something you never had, especially if that something is a _someone._ So you greet her with the brightest bouquet that you can find, keen that the riot of colour and scent in your outstretched hand catches her attention before you and your sad eyes do.

"Your roommate let me in." You anticipate a tirade in which she corners said roommate and lectures her in angry French about opening the door to anyone, boyfriend or otherwise, just because they bear gifts. You have been privy to many hushed Skype sessions where she complained about the other girl's lax habits, it acted as the final puzzle piece in fact, cluing you into a potential means of lifting her spirits. Yet, Lauren appears frozen by this spur of the moment confession, simply staring, bemused. For a heartbeat you panic until the corner of her mouth upturn into a coy smirk.

"This is an improvement on the first time you gave me flowers." The words themselves barely matter at all. You read her movements, the catch in her throat and the glitter of tears that hang on her lashes and force you to swallow down any protests. You let your solid frame speak for you as she all but leaps into your arms. Similarly, the petals she holds don't complain, handling their rough treatment charitably.

Since you have never been tricked by her facade, you suggest baking cookies later, regardless of your exhaustion from the travelling and a Tanner tour of Paris. Additionally you also do your best to be good humoured when she claims that you are more of a hindrance than a help in the kitchen (its slander), acting like every inch of the saint you aren't. Nobody needs to remind you that unlike yours, everything about her childhood was store bought and unconventional. Nevertheless, you're unable to suppress a grin when she lets you lick the mixture from the bowl, happy to accept the unspoken thanks.

...

She knows, you both do, that no banter will be exchanged about the single pink carnation that waits on her bed a few days later. It's only the third time you've given her flowers since you've known her, but there will be no jokes this time. You didn't just arrive in order to give her a pleasant association with Mother's day, if only. No, in fact, you're here because the universe apparently saw fit to really hammer home everything she'd lost with that cruel twist of fate. The dates aligned, and though she was strong and wouldn't crumble under the weight like plenty of other girls would, it was still a lot to cope with. You'll be damned if she'll be left facing in alone. Twenty oceans wouldn't stop you.

She doesn't say anything really, or react much at all. The only movement Lauren is content to make is to link her fingers with yours. You squeeze back, unable to be still, responding enough for the both of you. Your other hand strokes her hair, or wipes away tears that aren't there and all the while your lips are attempting to be reassuring or connecting, infusing her with as much warmth as you can spare. Your friends or family, if they were here, would be shocked, unable to believe that she had become so un-Lauren-like overnight, but you aren't. The first time maybe, but these days you know what to do. This is the part of her that nobody sees, but it's not the first time she has shown you.

The salt doesn't line her cheeks until the photo album is brought out from the back of her closet. The ragged sobs don't make themselves known at first and the only sound is the turning of the pages. Your chest rises and falls loudly in the stillness. Hers is frozen. You aren't afraid though, knowing that the exhalation will occur before the inevitable questions begin. She has to break. Witnessing that used to terrify you, but now you are safe in your ability to build. You hold her gently.

"Do you think I look like her?" She asks, her voice small, like a child's. You speak the truth, that she has her mother's eyes and add, urgently, over and over again, how beautiful you think Lauren is and how proud you are. Mostly you whisper how much you love her. You doubt it's enough, but it's all you've got, that and the promise that you won't go until her tears have long dried.

...

You're busy throwing some things into a rucksack when your laptop chirps. Your instincts tell you that it's her, and since every moment of her day is rigorously mapped, they also tell you that she has bad news.

"I can't come home. It's hectic here and there's no way I can get to Boulder for Thanksgiving." In place of speaking, you watch her fidget, and take a deep breath, praying that she'll mimic you. She doesn't, instead her fingers claw at her hair, as if her scalp is to blame and deserves to bear the brunt. You are her trial run, and more than that, she's revealing all of this so that you will help her break it to the intended audience, not her father but someone equally important.

Thanksgiving is for family and Payson will be devastated, that much is clear. The idea of them celebrating in Boulder has been set in stone since before they said goodbye at the airport. It was the one checkbox on the calendar which raised no objections from you.

"We'll figure this out." She isn't convinced, but you brainstorm until the doubts fade.

Inescapably the logistics aren't perfect, there isn't the time or budget (you have enough self control not to beg for her daddy's platinum card) to fly the whole gang out, but you promise to do whatever you have to in order to make sure that one vital seat on that plane is filled. This time the green eyed monster won't appear as you eye the runway, and not just because there isn't an excuse in the world that could get you out of sitting down at Grandma's table, but because you are definite that it's the right move to make. Lauren won't say it, but it's obvious that she needs Payson at her side just as much as she needed that pink carnation, so you'll do it, and smile through the headaches and loneliness.

Deep down you're proud of how well ultimately it comes together (deciding that your girlfriend doesn't have to know that you ran a red light and Payson still barely made final call.), it goes without saying that you wish that she was sitting beside you, whispering all the things that she's thankful for, but you'll take the next best thing. Lauren's happiness is always the goal (after all, what else has this year been about?). And anyway, a small part of you feels like you are there with them when she wakes you in the morning (in her excitement the 8 hour difference ceases to exist) and you hear Payson tucking into the cookies that you taught the blonde to bake. It's your final contribution towards the celebration it seems.

"I have no idea what I did to deserve you-"

You cut Lauren off. "You won a gold medal, remember?"

She ignores your joke. "I won a lot more than that." The pause that follows gives you more insight than the words, as always is the case with her. "Thank you, J." You make her repeat it about four times, certain that you've misheard or overestimated the sincerity, until she is undoubtedly scowling and the other blonde steals your attention. Payson begs you to give your girl a break, and sniggering, you finally let yourself.

"You're right Pay, I'll stop, just this once. It is the holidays after all." You don't have to see them to feel the eye rolls directed your way. They reach you far across the globe. "Have fun you two."

Afterwards, in the post-holiday slump, you discover that it's easier to pass the remaining time if you actively count down. Another month isn't much in the scheme of things, a drop in the ocean. You speak in such clichés to cope with the lull.

_**I think Christmas is my new favourite holiday.**_

You type; the sentence has replaced the other farewells. She humours you like always.

_**What was it before?**_

You give her a different answer each night before logging off.

_**Martin Luther King Day, obviously.**_

...

It's worse than waiting for Santa, but on the other hand, you predict an even bigger pay off. Finally, Christmas Eve is all yours. You are due some good luck, and in that moment, you are actually glad that the universe threw its curveballs and thus saved it all up for you, because it means that everything goes without a hitch. It makes all the complaints and missed chances worth it. Almost.

"Here." To you, it's only right to give her the doll first, having already left a Barbie in her suitcase (the beret was too good to pass up) and finding space in her birthday parcel for a party dress wearing blonde beauty. It has become a tradition that you don't regret and the Christmassy elf Barbie seems like the perfect final addition, until next year anyway. As predicted she isn't amused and punches you on the arm, voicing those same complaints under her breath as you shrug and smirk back. You're both well accustomed to your roles at this point. In fact, you know the drill so well that you're also aware that in spite of all her venom and threats of violence, she has kept them all. You aren't privy to the dolls' hiding place, but you know it exists, and that is enough.

Your high spirits allow you to push the boundaries further; after all, testing her limits is one of your favourite games. "I hope we have a daughter first or else our son is going to have a very un-traditional childhood." She gives you a dark glare at the implication that these unwanted gifts won't stop there, and you fire her one back, an unspoken friendly reminder that since she clearly favours the presents better than the nicknames, she should be careful what her next words are.

Lauren doesn't miss a beat. "No way, if _your _son wants to play with Barbie's, he's going to have to get his own. These are mine." You don't miss the emphasis she places on that forth word or that she has staked her claim on something she pretended not to want.

A grin forms, as above all, you've missed these sparring matches."Spoken like a true, spoilt, only child."

Your girlfriend sticks her tongue out, making the smile widen. "Takes one to know one." She has a point there.

Her comeback unwittingly sparks another debate. You both concede that you'd like at least 3 kids, so that they won't be as bratty as the pair of you (although maybe it's inevitable). However that's as far as the agreement stretches. You want two boys, and a girl for the youngest, whereas she wants two girls and a boy. Well, apparently she does for a nanosecond. Her mind changes in the instant that she sees the look of horror on your face. She turns gleeful at the prospect of you being surrounded by strong willed Tanner women (it doesn't surprise you that she'd keep her surname) and announces that she wants three daughters instead. You turn grey and since the attempts at a compromise don't go well (her negotiation tactics are more underhand than yours), you drop the thread of conversation with the idea that it should be picked up again someday. Maybe never suits you.

It's simple enough to divert her attention. "You do know that _she's _not your only gift, right?" You say, eying the suspiciously well groomed toy at her side.

"Oh thank god!" Lauren's exhale is deliberately theatrical. "Enough of the suspense, gimme, gimme!"

"No can do, Tanner, you have to work for gifts two- ten" Her eyes light up as you hand her the first clue. She springs up from the bed, and you think she's already forgotten you, lost in the pursuit. You don't mind, you like this blast from the past. It's everything you expected.

That's when she looks back, flashing you her widest smile. "Come on, it's no fun to just win. I need an audience."

Isn't that the truth? You take her hand and let her lead, keeping your jaw wired firmly shut. You are as reluctant to offer assistance as she is to take it. Nothing could be better than watching her squirm as she meticulously checks, and is disappointed by, most of the obvious hiding places within the apartment. All the same, you can't resist riling her a little bit.

Half an hour and four presents into the hunt, it begins to snow. You barely notice. "You're sub zero!" You exclaim smugly as she abandons her search of the hall closet. If looks could kill, you'd be a goner. You don't care; you'll take the punches (even if your girlfriend is stronger than she looks.) for the reason that you've missed precisely this.


End file.
